Delirium's Nostalgia
by Nikoru-chan
Summary: Robin gets sick, and as a result has time to think back. PLEASE C


Delirium's Nostalgia

By Nikoru-chan

DISCLAIMER: Robin isn't mine. Nor is Nightwing, Alfred, Jack or Dana Drake. They belong to DC, Time Warner, AOL and whomever else. Not me. 

I am Robin. Boy Wonder, Squire to the Dark Knight, Co-defender of Gotham's justice as well as it's innocents. All that.

I am also sick.

I have a cold. Maybe even a 'flu. Feh. 

I hate this. Figures it's the non-human – check that; non-humanoid – foe that gets me bed-bound. I've gone up against the Joker, King Snake, Lynx, Poison Ivy . . . the list goes on. I've faced them down, and even if I haven't won, I've at least survived the encounter with my skin intact and my head still firmly on my shoulders.

A pity that. 

At the moment said head is pounding like crazy. An – as Alfred would say - unpleasant state of affairs, one matched only by the equally horrible runny nose and blocked ears. Oh, and just for good measure, my throat feels like it's been rubbed with sandpaper. So maybe you can kinda see why I regret not letting King Snake eviscerate me.

Why is it so hot in here? I guess Alfred must have turned the thermostat up.

Nightwing thinks I'm being a baby. Sod him, I say. I have it on good authority (the best, actually. Oracle's info is rich, varied and most of all accurate) that he's a rotten patient, himself. A total wuss. 

I'd tell him so, except I lost my voice two days ago. Jerkwing comes in every day and rubs it in. Yeah, you heard me. He comes to the Manor to see me on his way to the Cave. Not sure why he has to visit the Cave every day, though. Must be working on a case or something. Head hurts, can't think.

Why the Manor? Well, it's school holidays, and Mrs. McIlvaine (the housekeeper) is visiting her family. Dad and Dana are away, too. Italy I think, or maybe Paris. So when I got sick, Dick and Alfred packed me over to Wayne Manor.

Me? Mind? No, not really. It's like when Mom was alive; they'd always be jet-setting off somewhere, too. So I'm used to being alone. At least now I'm being looked after by Alfred, who's really good at all the 'Mom' stuff you need (or at least want) when you're sick. Beats being in a boarding school any day.

It's really hot. I'm sweating like crazy. To heck with just 'turned up', the thermostat must be broken. I'd better call Alfred and tell him. 

Oh. I forgot. Voice doesn't work. And I can't seem to reach the bell he left me to ring if I needed anything. Feel stupid ringing a bell anyway. As though I should start slobbering like one of Pavlov's dogs. That wouldn't be half bad, actually; my throat is dry and raw, and I'm **still** coughing. Only thing that makes me salivate like I'd need to, to wet my throat, is Alfred's choc-chip cookies.

Speaking of which, I better get up, tell Alfred the heater isn't working properly.

Why is the room spinning?

Darkness.

**********

            " – sure he's okay? He was on the floor, out cold, when I found him." The voice is deep, musical. And concerned. After a moment I recognise it as Dick's, though overlaid with an element of anxiety that seems . . . uncharacteristic to me, listening. 

            "I suspect it was the exertion of removing himself from bed, young master Dick." Ah, that voice, older, richly toned and, in my mind, quite 'Mom'-like. "We shall remedy that removal immediately, if you'll assist."

            Strong, muscled arms, belied by their gentleness, lift my aching body. Since when did I start to ache like that? Still not quite able to open my eyes, the pain makes me moan.

            Damn. I'll never live **that** down. I cringe, expecting at any moment a teasing "stop being such a whiner" to pass my big brother's lips.

Nothing of the sort happens.

If anything, the concern in Dick's voice deepens to outright worry. Can't quite make out the words. . . 

************

            When I wake again, the room is much dimmer than before. It is cool, and the pain is gone, leaving in it's place a bone-deep fatigue. That's okay, I can handle that. Heck, I could even handle the pain beforehand, to an extent. It wasn't as bad as the Clench.

            The Clench.

            Oh, God. Have I relapsed? No. No, I can't have. This feels . . . different. Besides, even through the haze that's blurring my mind, I know I've been sick for at least a few days. If it were the Clench I'd be dead.

            Dead.

            Just like Jason.

            Just like Mom. 

            Mom . . .I miss you. 

Mom, I have a secret, you know. One I never told Dad. I never even told Bruce or Dick. 

You know what my secret is? 

It's that sometimes I forget you're dead. When Dad's gone on another of his trips it's almost like you're still alive, and just travelling with him, both of you too busy to call. That happened a lot, didn't it? Then he comes back, alone or with Dana in tow, and I remember. I'm forced to remember.

You're gone. And this time you're not coming back, not going to step off that plane, exhausted but still smiling. Not going to give me a hello kiss and by doing so smear pinky-red lipstick all over my cheek. 

Not going to promise to take me to the circus to make up for missing my birthday again. Not laughingly swearing to make Dad come too. 

What a disaster that evening was. But, you know, that photo of me sitting on Dick's lap is one of my prized possessions. 'The Flying Graysons' and little Timmy. Not just because it's a photo of me and my big brother (though he wasn't then), but because I felt so special. So privileged; I was joining you and Dad for one of your 'trips'. Even if it was only an outing of a few hours, not an overseas adventure, I was still coming with you. It's a photo I use to remind myself of you and you're not even in it. Silly, huh.

You know, we haven't celebrated any of my birthdays since you died.

Oh, I don't blame Dad for that. He was in a coma for one of them, and a wheelchair for another. And anyway, the Obeah Man's attack was so close . . . you died so close to it that the date seems tainted. Even now. 

I love you Mom.

I love you and Dad, even if you always left me alone. Not on my own, there was always Mrs. Mac or someone there, but I was still alone. 

I'm so tired. Maybe if I just shut my eyes again, just for a minute. . .

***************

            I awake again, this time aware that I'm not by myself in the room. Dick is sitting, dozing in a chair next to my bed, and I realise with crystal clarity just why he's been going to the cave every night. There is no case; he's been coming to the manor to check on me, make sure I'm getting better.

            I'm not alone. 

            And suddenly, I **am** getting better. 

            Thanks, Big Brother, Alfred. 

            Thanks, Mom. 

END

NOTES:

1. Set . . . somewhere? Somewhen? Possibly Canon-verse, before the whole Batman tells Spoiler thing, but after Jack and Dana are an item/married. Definitely not Twenty-verse.

2. This was written in two separate chunks about six months apart, with no real plot in mind. Indeed, the sole connecting feature is that both times, I've had an irritating upper respiratory tract infection making my life miserable. 

3. Despite this, I'd really love some C&C. Any and all comments welcomed, even if it is only to point out that this isn't a particularly coherent piece of writing.


End file.
